


The Western Hemisphere

by powercorruptionlies



Category: CNN - Fandom, CNN Analysts, CNN Anchor
Genre: College, Don't @ me I write all of this while black out drunk and don't edit, F/M, Finally the Harry Enten Fic, Flashbacks, I don't know how to tag this, I want to die this is my final will and testament, News Media, Politics, RPF with a lot of generous indulgences, Smut, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29565120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powercorruptionlies/pseuds/powercorruptionlies
Summary: So this is a pile of shit and I've been sitting on it for a while. Enjoy. Nobody will read this <3
Relationships: Harry Enten/Original Female Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi I'm drunk again and I rewatched the Georgia run offs and anyway. enjoy my indulgence. I'll re-order the chapters as it goes on.

NEITHER OF THEM HAD any real connection to the political world. Quinn knew some DOJ underlings, and Harry had inadvertently upset enough of them to have gained some notoriety within House and Senate circles--they didn't dislike _him_ per se, but they certainly disliked his numbers when they weren't fudged in their favor. Such as it was, they had 'friends of friends', seen only at parties and get-togethers and corporate dinners who always spoke off the record and held none of the tensions of those interviews during this, that, and the other person's news hour. 

One such time was the summer before the primaries: balmy nights and indulgence on Long Island, journeys on the filthy trains on the Montauk line in their best evening wear, out of place to everyone travelling with them. He held her around the waist, the partitions in the lace cutting a strip around the waist of her dress allowing his fingers to press their cold tips to her back, stopping her from stumbling as they held the overhead bars against the rhythm of the train.

They were met with Martini Thymes and whatever-you-want-on-the-rocks. Harry twitched about the choice of booze; he hated it all, so Quinn mineswept the dregs of his cocktails and let him stop her from embarrassing herself in front of former senators and current governors, and the occasional presidential-hopeful that dropped 'round the Hamptons to indulge in Cuomo's mini fridge and hors d'oeuvres. Chris joked that they thought they were coming for his brother and were bitterly disappointed to find that _'roided up old pundit_ , and Quinn never knew what to say. This was Harry's world, not her's, and he followed him through it like the tide to the moon. Though she had to teach about it day after day, she felt no closer to it than she did when brushing shoulders with de Blasio or Rose.

Most of the nights were consummated with the most lucid of the party crowding around the curves of Shinnecock Bay, swinging around each other against the cold of midnight and watching the heavy fog drag the water as if looking for a dead body. With all of the booze and all of the drugs she saw some phenomenally ugly sides of people, glinting and refracting alternately like cut jewels with superfluous facets, aspects of people that would go untold and ignored and make you wonder if people were hated for the right reasons; and she wonders if she twisted and turned in the light like that, too. 

It was heavy, night in, night out, and lasted for most of the summer. Drinks and money splashed around, less-than-subtle cosying up to a lathered presidential-hopeful in vain attempts to gain some insight: and then, it stopped, and September came, and nobody was invited back to the Hamptons. The cult disbanded, or at least cut some people out, and the bacchanalia of running around docks and bays on rocky beaches, cutting your feet on broken glass bottles and having strangers pull you back on your feet and tell you that you're alright, strangers you'd seen on TV, strangers that would pretend that you're just another one of the millions the next time they catch sight of you. Quinn never minded; and Harry never saw it this way. It was fun, maybe, and felt like a fever dream, a running joke, as soon as they came out of the fray.

So, that was as close as they swiped to the world they were hanging on the fringe of constantly. Cheap connections, bad nights--worse hangovers. Remembering the parts they didn't want to. 

-

An early morning in September, the smell of his holiday house still lingering on clothes hung in their closets, Chris manifested in the foyer of their apartment block. He smelt gently of smoke but a more saccharine kind, and he looked as if he wants something. Harry was on a breakfast run. Quinn never knew what to say, not to Chris.

'Hi, honey, can I come up?' He raised his eyebrows and clasped his hands; a soft burst of air popped between them. She nodded, and took him back up the stairs. 'No elevator?' He tried to make conversation, but Quinn gave just a wilted smile. 

She let him into the apartment before herself and she winced at the mess strewn around. Takeout boxes, empty bottles, oblique cushions. Quinn glowed, and Chris turned his back on it. 'So, what's going on?' She found it in herself to ask.

'Your beau's been taking my suits and I'm back for them.'

'Oh,' she said, dumbly. 'I'm sorry, I hadn't realised.'

'You didn't find it strange that a load of Ermenegildos started showing up?'

'When what?'

'Doesn't matter,' he trailed off, slinking through the apartment, seemingly subconsciously buttoning and unbuttoning the suit he already had on. Quinn stood listlessly in the doorway, shutting it with her heel and watching him pick at the magazines and books left out around the room.

'Before you ask, yes, we live like this.'

'With Harry it doesn't surprise me,' he laughed. 'So, suits?' 

'Sure. Bedroom's this way.'

Quinn sat on the bed, brushing invisible lint and wool from the flat sheets--at least this room looked half-decent, presentable. She watched Chris rake his hands through Harry's side of the wardrobe, peeling suits from bulky hangers and surveying the label, something that made Quinn's stomach flip, and alternately drape the fabric over his arm or slip it back onto the rack. When he's done, he had three suits slung over his forearm, and looked rather more satisfied than he had when he'd come in. She gripped the sheets in her fists. 

'Would you like a drink?'

'I'd go for a coffee,' he tells her, clemently. Chris was always pleasant, but so was Harry; the difference was that Chris had this omnipresent, certainly false, but never overdone, charm about him. Quinn couldn't object. 

They situate themselves either side of the island in the kitchen, the steam fogging up her glasses. The sun broke through the apartment from the lofty wall of windows and reminded her that she had to leave at some point, or that Harry had to come back. 

'You gonna relax around me or what? Did Harry tell you that I bite?' 

She rolled her eyes. 'He doesn't tell me anything.'

They sip at the coffee together, any rapport built up diminishing with the ticking of the clock. 

'You know, none of us know a lot about you, either,' Chris told her. 

'So?' Quinn jabbed, feeling more churning in her viscera. 

'So, maybe it's a him thing. I don't know. I'll get out of your hair once I've finished this,' he promised, tilting the half-empty mug at her. She watched him drink it down absently. 

Biting back something, fear, doubt, better reason, maybe, she said: 'no, don't worry. Stay. Harry always buys too much from the store.' 

And so, he does.

-

Harry texted a few minutes later to say that he was caught up behind Miriam and Bob, inarguably an older version of himself and Quinn, who were bickering light-heartedly about lox bagels. He'd be out for a while; so she decided to get to the bottom of things. Chris had since settled himself down on their couch and was watching reruns of the Mets and Dodgers game from last night, complaining that it was boring already and it was only the second inning. He looked in a comfortable position, and she fixed him another cup of coffee, all the while looking furtively over her shoulder as if spiking his drink. She picked at a few pieces of mango and sat on the armchair adjacent.

'Lugo makes me wanna kill myself.'

'Great,' Quinn muttered. 'Did the Mets lose?'

'Of course,' he told her with an air of theatricality, as if it were obvious. 'Anyway, thanks for the coffee. You make it good.'

Quinn looked down at her lap, feeling the tips of her fingers grow tacky with the mango juice. 'Sure. Anyway, can I ask you about something?' 

'No, you can't be my side piece.' 

She found it in herself to laugh, meeting his eye. 'Shame. That cut me, right here,' she said, beating her chest. 'No, I mean something about Harry.'

Chris frowned knowingly and pushed himself back on the couch as if telling her that she was in for a long ride. The TV was abruptly shut off in the middle of some caterwauling about the first home-run, and he nodded at her to continue. Once more, it made her feel cold and sick. 'What do you wanna know?'

'How... _is_ he. I barely get anything out of him about his actual feelings about things. It's like, I _know_ something's off, but all I get is some number thrown at me and a percentage sign and that's supposed to tell me how things are.'

'I suppose that tells you how _some_ things are,' Chris tried to joke. Quinn just looked on, blankly. She wished she could be more accommodating, she did, but she was only faced with another person refusing to give it to her straight. 

'I mean it. I don't want politics, or statistics, of polls, or any of that shit, I want personhood.'

Chris sighed and asked her when Harry would be back. She lifted a shoulder and said they'd know when he buzzed up. 'Well, then. I'll tell all, but you also gotta ask him upfront, alright? Ask him how he's doing, because he hasn't told me. This is just what I've seen.'

'Seen?' She asked impatiently, because how was any of it reliable?

'How he seems. Is there booze in this? I feel woozy.'

'No,' she said. 'Why would I--? Wait, no. Back to task. Tell all, then.'

'I'll monologue until he buzzes, alright?'

'Alright.'

'Well,' he flexes his fingers, a crack popping from one of the knuckles. 'He shares an office with these two guys...'

-

Chris clears off before Harry returned. Quinn was still sat, stuck on the chair she'd been in for a generous part of an hour. The smell of baked goods that she usually jumped at when Harry game back with them only made her more repulsed; yet, he didn't notice, and glibly went about plating up the late breakfast--reluctantly named 'brunch'--for the both of them. What Chris told her swam through her head, crudely kicking at the edges in an attempt to stay afloat. He hadn't commented on her reticence. 

'Here you go,' he offered, flicking on the TV again. 'God, you were watching ESPN?'

'Chris came around to pick up his suits.'

'Why're you staring off like that?' He asked, finally taking his tone down to something more gentle. He perched on the coffee table, his body--slimmer than she remembered it being before the summer--slouched in front of her.

'Why didn't you say?' She whispered, trying not to shake with either upset or rage. Not at him, never at him.

'About what?' The question bore little conviction. He knew that she knew, and he knew how she knew. 'Oh, Quinn. I didn't want you to worry.'

'I'd rather worry like this than what I was before,' she tried to yell, but her voice only cracked embarrassingly, as if she were young again, still coming to her own. And maybe she was.

'Okay, alright. Maybe I haven't exactly found the words to tell you,' he said. Harry put a hand over her own, squeezing it. 'It's really no big. Light-hearted joshing.'

'Really. Okay. Light-hearted.'

She tried to slide away from the chair but he had her boxed in. The plates of food were to the side, the scent to their sweetness and the bitter of the coffee she'd been churning out of the machine all morning growing too noxious around her, a heady concoction of opposing tastes. She wanted it to stop; for it all to stop. Harry tried to grab her around the arms to calm her writhing.

'Quinn.' He held her firmly in place. 'Quinn. Let me explain.' 


	2. Chapter 2

SHE SITS IN Bella Abzug Park, watching the fountain cascade its water down from where the mint-green table where she ashes the cigarette she isn't supposed to be smoking. The skinny white roll corrupts at the end in a smoldering heat, the paper furling in on itself and dropping like a weight off her chest onto the uneven slabs of concrete that make up the park. She's waiting for Harry. Flicking her phone to her face she sees that it's five to ten, and his interview should be wrapping up right about now; and that she's got enough time for another cigarette before he comes down from the skyscraper in which he works. She lights up again and counts her money, wondering where that little could take them for dinner this late on a Wednesday night. 

A few figures walk past her line of sight, mere simulacrums of people in the navy haze of the long-set sun on New York City. They cut past the fountain, feet scraping the strangely-placed squares of stone, no obvious pattern in the alternating gray and black pieces that make up the ring around the fountain. She finishes the second smoke, exhaling it in a dragon-like fashion through her nostrils and dropping the butt of the roll onto the floor; Harry probably won't smell it by the time he comes out. Chris always overruns, or there's always some trouble getting out of the office late at night; like, you've got to work some more, or: can you come and check this article over for me? It sounds like a nightmare, but Harry never seemed to mind what it all entailed. A well-to-do peasant, a Kulak, is how she feels they see him in there. Still, she keeps silent, and waits patiently with her hands in her pockets and braced against the city's autumnal wind. 

Finally, she sees a long slip of a man coming down the Boulevard, indubitably her Harry, hunched over in a diffident slouch. Quinn pushes herself from the metal chair, feeling a drizzle of rain starting over the area and frizzing up her hair--she pats it down and meets him half way. With uncertain hands in the dark sweeps of his hair, gripping gently at the roots where the color finally differentiated from the rest, she pulls him down so he can meet her lips, and in that moment of electric connection she hopes to transfer some of his thoughts to her own.

'How was your day?'

'Let's just...' he begins, holding her round the back of the neck, fingers meeting from either hand to meet in a gentle pulse at the nape. 'Let's just get home.'

Harry vibrates with something, maybe anger. It's seldom something she sees on him. It's akin to when he gets flustered, embarrassed, but with a drier overtone and a more dangerous connotation beneath his clipped, carefully-chosen words. It would be arousing, were it not worrying. She resists asking what happened. She'd find out, or she wouldn't. In place of query, she smiles glibly, running her palms up the length of his unwieldy arms, the rough waterproof fabric causing an uncomfortable friction when tasked with her soft skin. The touch is a question in and of itself but they can pretend that it isn't, that it's just a casual, loving touch, rather than a _we'll_ _talk about this later_.

They find themselves in their Lower Manhattan apartment on Lispenard Street, drinking their respective escapisms with their legs dangling over the fire escape. They both see it as a luxury, their clingy, metallic balcony that lets them watch over their piece of the City, the cars passing and meeting each other with honks of hostility and headlights that raise pale yellow shapes on the walls as they try to sleep. For now, however, Quinn places an order with the ramen place a few blocks east, and cradles Harry's head in her lap, running fingers through his hair once more but with the leverage of privacy and quietus.

'Food's done. Now will you talk?' She teases, pressing a kiss to his forehead--it wrinkles with the brush of her lips. Harry scowls, though not at her, more so at what he needs to offload. 

'Turn the TV on.'

'Is that going to explain it to me?' 

A hum escapes him, somewhat amused, somewhat irritated. She obliges, flicking across the channels. He gives no indication that he wants her going in a specific direction. Quinn asks him as much, though he lets her keep going. 

'Something happened with Chris, no?'

'Yes, it did. And Don. Probably would've happened with any Gen-Xer.'

Quinn coils a slip of his hair tighter around her finger. 'What was the argument? I thought you were only talking about Biden.'

'It was supposed to be about Biden and voter figures. Standard, right? Ugh...' He lets his arm dangle from the slate-gray couch, brushing the carpet lackadaisically. 'It wound up being about young voters. Which is fine. But when they start ganging up on you about whose show you're on and what you said and when and making it a... a... _thing_.' 

She swallows, folding herself down to hold him around the shoulders. 'Ganging up, huh?'

'Sound dumb?' 

'No. I can see how that would happen.' She brushes his hair back from his forehead, opening up his slender face and wide eyes. They search hers for something as she hovers above him, nose to nose, teasingly close in proximity. She rubs the tip of her nose to his, still cold from the temperature outside. The opening in his pale pink shirt beckons her hand down between the gap to stroke across the hair on his chest, the definition between his chest and the muscle that flexes beneath his skin as he breathes erratically, still calming himself down. 'What did they say? Or am I better off watching it myself?'

'Eh,' he starts, shrugging. 'The latter. It was just annoying. One big rant about young people, while not listening to the young person.'

A beat passes, a few, really, as his eyes pull away from hers. When they refocus: 'I feel as if they look down on me.' To which she holds him tighter, despite the notifications on her phone telling her that the delivery driver was outside the complex.

'I'm sure they don't. It's late, everyone's tired, frustrated. Okay?'

He doesn't sound convinced. Instead he unravels himself and goes to the door, ready to let the delivery guy up. 'It is what it is. Yeah?' 

Quinn watches him lean against the door frame, still draped in his outdoor coat that reaches his knees and tickles the back of his neck with the woollen fibres. Harry stares at her in expectance of acquiescence, to which she allows, the hunger tugging at her stomach. He was sad, despondent, but nothing she could say would twist him from his mood or depleted perception of himself. 

'Yeah,' she says after him, finally regaining her voice. Harry leaves to get the food, and she has time to change out of her work clothes. She also stops cooking up reasons for getting information out of him; he obviously doesn't want to exposit what the real issue is, an unplaceable rage and frustration piling up between him and everyone else. Where had that started? Years before now, surely, and she'd just joined the party in the middle of it all. He comes back up with the bags of food, unappetising grease pooling at the bottom of the brown paper, his eyes reddened and more than a little lachrymose. She lets it go. They eat together, they watch re-runs of whatever he wants to watch together, his lithe torso strewn across her own, slipping in and out of consciousness until they both succumb to sleep on the short and narrow couch.

-

In the middle of the night she wakes up, inexplicably hungover and feeling grotesquely full. She picks up the food wrappers in the dark and disposes of them, getting herself a glass of water with one hand as she searches for that night's _Prime Time_ with he other. It's awkward but she gets to it eventually, scrolling through minutes of asinine discussion, breaking through barriers of ads about physiotherapy and stridex until she reaches Harry's segment. 

Quinn watches it all, and smiles, until the arguing becomes too overlapped and too unbearable to discern one person's rage from the other--then Don comes in, adding to the chaos. She winces from where she reels over the kitchen counter, casting a look over her shoulder every now and then to ensure that the light and the noise hadn't woken Harry from his precarious sleep--it was awfully early for either of them to be knocked out, but the world was dark and cold and unwelcoming, and barely worth being awake in at this point in the year. Once the uncomfortable interview was over, she clicks off her phone, and starts reconciling the argument with how her boyfriend was feeling that night. She understands. There's nothing unnatural about how he feels; though, Quinn could do without him getting into situations like this at all in his place of work. She puffs a despondent sigh through closed lips, cleaning the hob of the stove with a somewhat-dry dish cloth and doing whatever she could to busy her hands and tire herself out before shaking him awake to get to their bedroom. Was there much point? She considers, thinking that neither of them had much work to do tomorrow, he with no articles nor interviews, she with no lectures to espouse, though she needed somebody to hold, and felt terrible to leave him alone in the living room without a pair of arms around him. Quinn gets herself another glass of water, and concedes to sleeping against his chest on the couch once more. 

She whispers her thoughts to his sleeping chest in the dead of night, stroking across the cotton of his pyjama shirt, ascertained that he couldn't hear nor perceive her as she sympathised and paid him love and attention. Quinn bites and kisses at his flat chest, settling herself and talking herself down from the discomfort and agitation threading through her. 'Goodnight, baby,' she whispers to his chest, petting his lean torso until she was unconscious.

-

'It's sort of fucking abysmal,' she says of the DNC rerun the next morning. 'Not them, but... yeah, maybe them.'

He doesn't look up from the Mac. There's gubernatorial coverage from the 80s playing on mute. 'Most of the country agrees.'

'Is that a bad thing?' 

'Shouldn't be,' he shrugs. 'The speeches were alright, though. Urquiza, I mean...' 

'I liked Sanders's.'

Harry nudges her ankle. 'Of course you did.'

She doesn't push it. It's nine a.m. and they're bored already, a Thursday with nothing happening and everything that needs to be done seeming optional at best.

'I mean, if you really want _abysmal_ , wait four days. That'll be a god damn picture.'

'RNC?' 

'Mm. I'm covering, by the way,' he tells her, meeting her eyes somewhat cautiously. 

'That's fine. Enjoy the crazy.' 

'Within or without?'

'Ha. I'm getting a coffee, what do you want?' 

'Something to do,' he frowns. 

Quinn fusses around in the kitchen, folding filters into the pour-over. The repetitive syllables coming from the TV are taken over by the tinny drone announcing Hugh Gallen winning New Hampshire again. '1980?' She calls over her shoulder, which he affirms with a slight nod. The stream of coffee dripping from the funnel fades from auburn to stark black, steam condensing around the clear mug. 'Surely that gets boring,' she continues, her words strung together stodgily. 

'Something like that--oh, here: I don't think Clinton's gonna make this one!'

'Frankie takes the stage?' She asks, slumping back down on the couch with the coffee that Harry immediately manoeuvres out her hands for himself. 'Feeling better?' 

Harry slides up on the cushions to steal sips of her coffee better; he winces at the strength. 'Yeah, I was just exhausted last night, you know? It isn't that deep. They're all okay over there.'

'I'm sure,' she agrees, snatching the mug back and manipulating his arm around her so she can settle into his side. 'Fucking hell, it's ninety minutes long?' 

'Not nearly long enough,' he tells her.

-

They wander around New York in the afternoon, Quinn putting off Harry's requests to stop for lunch so they can get as far as possible from Tribeca and into some unbeknownst (to them) crevice of Manhattan to fill up the day. They walk for an hour, past Hudson Yards and into Hell's Kitchen to snoop around the restaurants they'd inevitably turn their noses up at. In the shade of the staircase architecture of the Mercedes House they take a breath, people crawling around the pool in the lawn beside the building, people driving out of the car park with their new cars. Harry says something about being able to drive, really--Quinn taps his cheek, eternally unconvinced. He gives up asserting himself in favor of dragging her around the corner to the strip of restaurants that look almost identical to every other street in the city, twists of neon light faded and flickering in the high Sun, small-print menus displayed on podiums outside the crowded buildings. 

'It's expensive,' she says outside of The Marshal. 'And it doesn't even sound that good.'

'You kidding? Ribs, breadsticks... you like sprout salad, right?'

'Not for thirty dollars.'

Harry tuts. 'You haven't lived here long enough, obviously. That's a fair price,' he says, leading her down the road again and stopping at Kochi, a place they were better acquainted with. Had they been there on a company night out? Quinn couldn't remember, but she can recall loitering around this part of the borough, someone yelling about this old gay club and that old gay club and how this place used to be so much better. She didn't doubt it. But, no: she _hasn't_ lived there long enough. A new recruit, stationed here accidentally after meeting Harry on-air during a debate on some bleary-eyed, coffee-fuelled news hour she'd never paid attention to before getting asked on about election history. She had been a complement to him, the one spouting the numbers as she backed it up with words and a nice title card beneath her bust that touted her profession and her degree. Y _es, yes, it'll all go fine in 2020, he'll be voted out, the history upholds the man's failure._ Things she says in lecture halls to worried, precocious students, and words she's since espoused all over the news in some accidental free fall into political commentator notoriety. Quinn doesn't mind; she met Harry, and people take her a little more seriously.

'Remember how we met?' She pipes up, interrupting his surveying of the menu. She glances over at him a little nervously, twisting the drying ends of her hair around a finger swollen by heat. 

'Yes, you yelled at me on live TV for getting a figure wrong about Bush senior.'

'What? I wouldn't say--' she stops herself from contending. 'Yeah, that's it.'

She smiles; he smiles. 'How could I forget, really. You scared the shit out of me, and everyone else.'

'I didn't mean to,' she tries, hurrying her words to tell the man on the door that they needed a table for two. 'It mattered so much to me. I didn't want to look stupid and have it be a 'thing'. I could've really fucked up.'

They walk to the single table by the window, half-empty bottle of soy sauce leaking a ring around its base into the pale, wooden planks beneath their elbows. Harry smiles his thanks at the waiter, and Quinn feels herself staring at him with the embarrassing enthralment of a teenager. She wonders what sort of people fall in love with him when he shows up on air, if any. She wonders if she would've done the same. 

'You couldn't have fucked up,' he answers. It catches her off guard; were they still talking about her? 'You were already a respected professor. If you screwed it up you would've just been a blip in the system, no-one would've remembered. Not that anyone knows the specific details about election history outside of what we all bullshit everyday.'

'That's... comforting?' She answers, eyes flicking between the drinks menu and her partner's face. 'Thanks.'

'It's what I'm here for,' he says, not without a slather of irony. 'You're honest, I think. Too honest. It gets beaten out of you: if you were to go into journalism full-time, I mean. You can't be a professional BS-er as a teacher, I don't think.'

'God, no. Can you imagine? _Tucker Carlson teaches G &P at Columbia_.'

' _The world descends to the ninth circle_ ,' Harry finishes. 

They share an esoteric laugh and calm down enough to order the house lemonade. It's spicy and has a dusting of red powder swirling through the pale-yellow fluid in the buckles of the glass. They cheers; to what? To anything, themselves, having a day off they can share. It's an increasing rarity. More students enrol in her course, enraged at the world and wanting to qualify themselves to try and make an impact; Quinn would never admit she thinks it futile. They keep finding statistics for Harry to comment on; hard facts seem to be better received than flimsy opinion commentary. The world splits apart and they split apart. Physically, at most. 

She watches the sun of dwindling summer come through the window, stretching from the slate floor to the ceiling. He doesn't know she's watching him as he prods at the Kabocha with the splintering chopsticks, dark hair raised up in the light to a softened brown, his skin, tanned easily despite his distaste for the sun, cut into light and shadow around his strong features. Quinn sips the lemonade, throat tightened around something, maybe the turmeric peppered throughout, maybe not.


End file.
